Page 119 of Lemon Crush

“Oh, Chick, no.” I hated his shopping montages. Trying on clothes in front of unforgiving mirrors while he played dance music from his phone on the other side of the changing room door? The older I got, the less I liked it. Which was why I ordered all of my pajama sets online.

“‘Oh Chick, yes!’ is what I’m used to hearing. Try again.”

Defeated, I reached for my margarita and drained the last of it, then licked the salt off my lips. “This had better be really good advice.”

Three hours later, Myrtle was full of shopping bags and I was surrounded by my own personal entourage as I stared at my wet hair in the salon mirror. I’d had a shopping montage’s worth of advice about men in general and Wade in particular. And of course, the montage soundtrack was the playlist Chick had beenmaking for Lemons, which included everything from Rihanna’s “Shut up and Drive” to theSpeed Racertheme song. My head was still spinning with information and earworms when we got to Montrose, where Phoebe’s friend worked.

The small, hip salon instantly made me feel both underdressed and entirely at home. It was like a young, curly-haired model convention.

Though the woman we’d asked for was busy, she’d sworn by her fellow stylist Tony, and one look at his perfectly styled natural curls created an instant bond of trust between us. This mangotmy hair. He wouldn’t try to feather it, straighten it or give me bangs. I could work with him.

After a scrub that included red salt and tea tree oil, as well as a wash and deep condition, he’d brought me out to his spot on the floor and allowed Bernie and Chick to sit on the small, aqua-colored sofa beside us. They’d decided Tony was their new best friend and should be filled in on everything that had been going on in our lives recently.

“That’s it,” Tony declared, though he wasn’t talking about my hair, since he was still snipping away. “This race sounds hysterical, and you’ve convinced me to make the drive and come to one of your yoga lessons, Bernie.”

“Don’t start with her advanced class,” Chick warned him. “I consider myself to be in damn fine shape, and I barely survived it. The only reason my pride is still intact is because my buddy Haywood didn’t.”

At some point during the last two weeks, Chick and Kingston had decided to work together instead of snipe at each other. They’d been visiting each team member to get a “day in the life” perspective before the race. Kingston would film and subtly interrogate. Chick would charm, guide and empathize until they both got what they wanted.

A few days ago, it was Bernie’s turn, and she’d decided toinvite them to join a yoga class. When Kingston, who was a regular runner, sounded dismissive of the activity, Chick had challenged him to a yoga-off. From the way Bernie described it, Chick had been covered in sweat and shaking by the time it was over, while Haywood had been flat on his back and begging for mercy.

Part of me wished I could have seen it. The other part was just happy I was finally able to holdWarrior Iwithout falling over.

I studied my face in the mirror. Thanks to Bernie’s torture sessions and my hours at the icehouse, I’d lost ten pounds and felt stronger than I had in years. I looked better too.

Closing my eyes, I zoned out for a little while, loving the feel of fingers tugging at my hair.

Then Bernie said, “Romance novel? I thought she was finishing a book in her fantasy series.”

I gasped but managed to keep from turning my head (I didn’t want those scissors taking a tragic detour), glaring at Chick’s reflection. “Why would you tell her about that?”

“Why wouldn’tyou?” Bernie countered. “You know those are my guilty pleasure.”

“I thought chili fries were your guilty pleasure.” Bernie gave off heroine vibes. The kind of heroine who was way too busy scaling mountains and dating twenty-something strippers to read about someone else doing those things.

Tony patted my shoulder. “I love them too. They’re my weakness.”

Chick gifted him with his Hollywood grin. “I’ve been going through them as fast as I can order them lately. But August’s is still my favorite.”

He’d started reading them in order to properly critique mine, but he’d quickly become an addict. Now that I’d finished writing, he had a list of them for me to read so we could discuss them. “Which is why she has cover art waiting in her email and a copy is with my favorite editor as we speak.”

“What?!” I squawked, causing several heads to turn in our direction. “Sorry.”

“It’s a great book, August. Your contract is fulfilled, and it said nothing about owning the rights to your work from a different genre,” he told me. “I’ve read it and it’s thankfully very specific. I think you should self-publish ASAP. But tell me to butt out and I won’t push again.”

It was a good idea in theory. It would save me from the endless void of what-happens-next I tended to fall into while waiting for copy edits and a publishing date. But self-publishing would mean releasing without a net. Doing my own advertising. My own promotion. Tooting my own horn.

I was horrible atallof that. I loved talking to my readers and giving away books, T-shirts and e-readers. But the actual hustle needed to sell books? That was not my forte.

“I can’t believe I’m cutting an author’s hair,” Tony said with a bemused smile as he snipped away. “I used to spend weekends with my Nonny when I was in high school, practicing on her curls and reading her romance books. She loved Scottish highlanders.”

“At nineteen I started reading Nora Roberts,” Bernie confided. “That woman helped me redecorate my old house and learn to cook.”

I stared at her reflection. “Nora Roberts taught you to cook?”

I’d seen her at a few conventions, and she’d never even said hello to me.

“Her books did. Fully half of every book she writes is filled with people preparing food while discussing how to fight a big bad,” she informed us with a grin. “Or decorating houses and painting cabinetry while being stalked by serial killers. It was all so detailed and interesting, and of course, sprinkled with small bursts of sex, usually with the woman on top. As she should be.”

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